Silhouettes and Storms
by SeriousSubwayFlirting
Summary: Atton contemplates his place in the new Order now that the Exile is gone. One-shot that takes the premise set in Revan by Drew Karpyshyn and gives it an ending that's a little happier :) Same Atton and Meetra from Clouds That Thunder, but not related to the overall narrative/spoiler free - just a little piece of alternate timeline fluff. Written for and dedicated to seraberra :D


A crack of white and blue split the sky; brilliant light hid some clouds and made others silhouettes, then a tremor of brontide echoed angrily through the soft, grassy ground. Though they were still too fine for him to see, tiny flecks of rain were carried off course by a sharp, cold breeze before they landed, making patterns on the surface of the water. Atton closed his eyes. _Time to head in_, he supposed, but the thought came slow, resigned, as all thoughts did these days. He didn't really care. It didn't really matter.

He wasn't sure why he was even still here, on Coruscant, pretending that he gave a damn about lightsaber forms and body target zones and meditation. It wasn't like he was needed; he never was particularly good at any of that stuff, it was never a calling for him. He'd only wanted to help her, but now she was gone. He relaxed the muscles in his hands, the ache in his fingers telling him how tightly they'd been pressed against his palms, unintentional though it had been.

It had seemed as though the first year would be the hardest, as grief clutched his throat and tried to suffocate him. He'd been certain that it would get better, that it wouldn't be so bad eventually, and for a brief time it had. But now no one seemed to remember her. No one seemed to care that she was gone, and that made it worse. _That_ was the hardest part. Where once he'd felt like he belonged, sitting in the cockpit, trading smirks and stories and credits over pazaak with her, now he was displaced, again. Pretending to be someone that he wasn't, again.

Another crash of thunder and Atton's brow descended. It was time to go, not just inside, out of the rain, but to leave the whole farce behind. He was no Jedi, and he was no fool either, so fooling himself any longer wasn't an option. Pretending he could fit here wasn't an option. He pressed his hands into the pockets of the robe he wore, humiliation finally making him miss that filthy, old jacket that was always slightly too tight across the shoulders. He walked, making for the Temple for want of another means to leave the grounds, and his boots squelched with each step, as the lawn became wetter and wetter. His fringe flopped in his eyes, weighed down by rain, and he felt a few stray trickles seep down the back of his neck. It was over. It was over. It was over.

"Atton!"

He didn't stop. It was a female voice, maybe Mira. It came from the left, from one of the other equally distant entrances to the Temple and he supposed whoever owned that voice had trudged out into the dreck hoping to find him, hoping he would perform some petty errands, for that was all he ever seemed to be entrusted to do, here. It _might_ have been important, but he highly doubted it, and even if it was, he didn't care. He was done. Footfall after footfall, he cursed the lavishness of Coruscant's Temple, as his clothes became soaked and cold on the long jaunt back through the gardens.

"Atton, wait up!" bellowed the voice again, irritation curling around each syllable.

Atton felt a tickle in his spine, as realisation tried to smash through the wall of denial he'd built around himself. It sounded like Meetra. _Sounded_ like Meetra, but obviously it wasn't, because it had been one year, two years, three, four. Four since she had gone after Revan. Four since they had heard from her. Two since even Bastila had resigned to the fact that Revan was mostly likely dead, and thus the Exile was, too. It wasn't possible. It wasn't worth considering. He didn't stop. His eyes narrowed, his shoulders squared, his boot slammed against the ground, new mud splattering over them, and then he was held. At first it didn't make sense, and all he could feel and taste and touch was purple haze, and the unusual pain that came with being frozen in motion so suddenly. Through this wall, he could still hear - the rain, another cry of thunder, the wet, bouncy foot steps of his pursuer as she drew closer. And then the stasis field vanish, and he dropped, almost losing his balance. She was close, now, spouting an apology, but he didn't want it, and he whipped around, teeth grit, venom lingering on his tongue.

"What in frack was -" He stopped. Anxiety prickled over his skin, starting in the small of his back and working its way upwards, across each tiny pore and hair follicle, grasping at his skull. She was soaked; the rain made clothes too big stick to her thin frame, made strands of long, scraggly hair cling to her neck and her face. Drops sat on her lashes, on eyes wide with…something. Some emotion, something he didn't know or understand right then.

"Atton," she squeaked, responding to the frantic searching of Atton's eyes. "Force."

Atton simply stood there, disbelief forming a ball in his throat past which no sound could pass. His brain lurched, overwhelmed by the effort of making sense of what he saw before him. He tried to swallow, but his tongue seemed too big for his mouth and it all stuck, sticky, confused. "Meetra?"

"We were – were trapped. And I, I came here first, and I -" She opened her mouth, lost, then bit down on words too jumbled to say. She lifted her hand, pressing the heel of her palm against her eye socket. "I had to see you. I needed..." She stopped again, resigning herself to the inadequacy of words. She waited no longer, but launched herself at him, arms encircling his rib cage and her face pressed against his collarbone.

With hesitation born of shock, he returned the embrace, hands searching her frame, finding her emaciated, bony, thin. There were too many questions, then; he'd entrenched himself in thought many times, wondering how he would react, what he would say, what he would do differently if the Force ever took pity on his wasted heart and returned her, but now none of these plans seemed appropriate. None of them seemed good enough to accommodate for the swell in his chest or the confusion in his head, so he gripped her tighter, as Meetra and the sky alike wept, sending rain that was cold and heavy and made the small pool of warmth between them seem all the more precious.

She raised herself on her toes, so her face was close to his, and whispered in his ear, in a voice that was humble and earnest and full of truth, "I missed you, so much."

Still he could not speak, though he desperately wanted to return the sentiment, for it was more than just true but had coloured every aspect, every facet of his life for years now. To convey the true depth of this, just how much he meant it, became a conundrum and he wrestled with it. There was so much he wanted to do, to say, to let her know, and there was not an utterance enough to cover it.

Without his permission, his hands moved from her back, trailing up to cup her face. He'd never dared before, too afraid of her rejection, but in his heart she'd been lost for years, she was gone, and this seemed a dream, a fantasy, one he was too weak to deny himself any longer. Permission was etched on every feature of her face, and any lingering doubt nipping at him fell away. He kissed her, and she did not wait to return it, thin fingers disappearing into his hairline, tangling with wet, messy hair. Her mouth was warm and soft and everything he'd almost imagined it to be, as was the gentle press of her nose next to his, her sweet breath on his chin, the press of her abdomen against his. There they stood, ravelled in one another, oblivious to the storm and indifferent to any who might spy them, and Atton felt a weight ascend from within him. That agonising pitch, that desperate grief, that had taken up residence inside him, that had darkened his path and his eyes and his heart for years - it lifted. There was not a storm cloud or grey sky in all the galaxy that could cast a shadow on him now. It was over, it was over, it was over.


End file.
